


Spoon

by toomuchplor



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Friendship, Loneliness, M/M, Platonic Relationship, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 14:26:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchplor/pseuds/toomuchplor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a tiny Canadian girl proves to be an adequate stand-in for a brawny British guy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spoon

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm not actually obsessed with snuggling, but I do have this habit of thinking idly about fic as I lie in bed before I fall asleep, so. Sorry.

Arthur doesn’t hesitate when Ariadne heaves a little sigh and throws back the duvet; he just clambers onto the mattress gamely and wriggles over until he can gather her into his arms. She’s sleep-warm and the skin of her shoulders is soft against the underside of Arthur’s forearm. She smells like her citrus bodywash, like graphite and the epoxy she uses on her foam models. It’s all wrong but it’s familiar, anyway, which is its own kind of comfort.

“Remember when I thought you were, like, this butch ice-cold killing machine?” Ariadne asks, blowing her hair out of the way as she settles down against his shoulder.

“I am totally a butch ice-cold killing machine,” Arthur insists in the deepest most serious tone he can muster while wearing his Pac-Man t-shirt and Eames’ comically oversized plaid flannel pajama bottoms.

Ariadne snorts very gently. “You’re just lucky I’m flat-chested enough to pass for a boy.”

Arthur smiles in spite of himself and gives her a little squeeze. He can, in fact, feel the soft press of her breasts against his side, but even if that weren’t the case there’s simply no way he could fool himself into thinking she’s anyone but Ariadne. She’s small and neat and she fits into the crook of Arthur’s arm; moreover, she lacks Eames’ shameless cuddle-hunger. She tolerates Arthur’s embrace very patiently, and Arthur’s — grateful. Not that he can quite bring himself to — “Yeah, lucky,” Arthur manages, and hopes Ariadne knows he doesn’t mean her A-cups.

“He’ll be back soon,” Ariadne says. “You know how shitty it is, pinning down a secure connection of any kind in Port-au-Prince.”

“Mm,” Arthur half-agrees, twirling a long soft lock of her hair around his finger. He wishes she would stop talking. His throat hurts.

“Here, I’ll hum God Save the Queen and Rule Britannia,” she says, teasing now, “and you can close your eyes and imagine I’m wearing a pink polyester shirt.”

“Okay, that’s it, I’m going back to my room,” Arthur says, and makes as though to leave, but of course Ariadne laughs and pins him down and begs him to stay, she’s sorry, she wasn’t making fun, she just — “I never used to be like this,” Arthur admits, once Ariadne’s persuaded him to settle back under the covers.

Ariadne’s wound up with her arm around Arthur this time, and her shoulder feels odd under his cheek but the point of her chin against the part of his hair is nice. “Ugh, boyfriends are the worst,” she agrees.

Arthur nods, sighs, and closes his eyes. Ariadne is nothing like having Eames with him, but he’s not alone, and that makes it a little easier to drift off. Eames will be back soon. Haiti’s internet sucks. Boyfriends are the fucking worst.

Arthur lets Ariadne hold him, and he sleeps.


End file.
